


Bucky Deserves Better

by greyroseandsunflower



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-06-17 17:38:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15466596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyroseandsunflower/pseuds/greyroseandsunflower
Summary: Bucky Barnes hides out in Romania and tries to recover from his time as the Winter Soldier.





	1. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky hides out in Bucharest and tries to recover from his time as the Winter Soldier.

Mellow jazz echoed from the loudspeakers. It was barely audible over the swirl of boisterous chatter from the crowd. They were gathered around a platform, listening to a handsome man give a presentation. He was talking vaguely of the future, of technology. 

 

But Bucky didn't care about him. He was distracted, concerned. Something was tugging at the corners of his consciousness. What was it? He was looking for something--no, someone. He scanned the crowd, desperately trying to remember who he was looking for. 

 

Among the sea of bouncy curls and pressed suits, his eyes suddenly fell on a boy. It was him. Scrawny and unassuming, his bright blue eyes peeked at him from behind a mop of blonde hair. His jacket hung off his frame, several sizes too big. He was smirking, but there was pain in his eyes. 

 

Those eyes… where did he know those eyes? Bucky struggled to put a name to the face. But before he could, the boy spoke to him. 

 

“You have to go. You don't belong here anymore.” His voice was heavy with grief. “You shouldn't be here.”

 

Bucky stammered for a response. The name was on the tip of his tongue. “What do you mean?” he asked. His voice wobbled. “Where are we?”

 

“Doesn't matter anymore,” the boy shrugged. “Everything's gone. You missed it.” He turned away from him and began weaving his way through the crowd. Bucky followed him, struggling to catch up. 

 

“Wait! What do you mean?”

 

The boy didn't respond, but continued to walk away. Bucky broke into a light jog, but he wasn’t getting closer. The boy was disappearing into the crowd. He pushed past people, tripping over shoes and skirts. They became angry, and chucked their popcorn and drinks at him. 

 

“Please, get out of my way!” he begged them. They pressed in closer, smothering him. They shouted at him, spit in his face. He could barely breathe. He cast one last desperate glance around, but the boy was nowhere in sight. 

 

Everything was getting so loud and bright. The music was swelling, and everyone was flailing their limbs about, wrestling with no one in particular.  Bucky tried to break free, but it was pointless. Everyone piled on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Shiny shoes and t-strap heels kicked him in the face. 

 

He heard someone screaming, howling like a wounded animal. It took him a moment to recognize his own voice. He was screaming for Steve. 

 

He would've kept yelling, but he was running out of air. The whole room was pressing down on him, hot and bright and loud. His ears were throbbing and his throat was burning and his head was pounding, pounding, pounding…

 

Bucky’s eyes burst open as he jerked forward, a final strangled scream still on his lips. He saw a cracked, yellowed ceiling that was peeling in one spot and dripping in another. He felt a bare mattress beneath him, a thin blanket wrapped tight around him. 

 

He was in his apartment, drenched in sweat but shivering. Sickly pale sunlight streamed in through a dirty, cracked window. It glittered on the beads of sweat on his face, making him look a bit like a distraught angel. 

 

He ripped off the blanket and rolled over, hugging his arms tight to his chest. After a while, the tremors subsided. 

 

When his breathing finally steadied, Bucky sat up, reaching for the blue notebook on the floor next to him. He opened it to where he had marked it with a pink sticky tab. On the right-hand page, there was a photograph of a man in uniform. He was tall and blonde, with handsome features and sculpted muscles. And kind, blue eyes. Eyes like the calm summer sky, that you could fall into, if you weren't careful. 

 

“Steve…” 

 

The word felt like honey on his lips. He gazed at the picture for a moment, losing himself in his few fractured memories. They were more flashes and feelings than complete scenes, really. A cheeky smile here, a frustrated pout there. A bloodied lip and a black eye. 

 

Bucky tucked the photo back in the book and put it aside. He pulled a change of clothes out of the cardboard box that served as a dresser and ducked into his tiny shower stall. 

 

He didn't have to be at work until mid afternoon, which he appreciated. He enjoyed having mornings off to do things at his own pace. Admittedly, he usually needed the extra time to calm down from his nightmares. They left him feeling drained and shaky, disconnected.

 

He let the icy water rush over him, drumming on his metal arm. Normally he preferred the water to be as hot as possible, but this month he had made the difficult decision to forego that luxury in favor of finally buying a microwave. 

 

Bucky turned it off and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. As he rung out his hair, a tune from a repetitive pop song echoed in his head. But he couldn't remember the lyrics, so he just hummed. 

 

He pulled on his boxers and a soft, grey flannel. He figured he'd finish getting dressed later, before he left for work. Wiping away the condensation on the medicine cabinet mirror, he numbly took in his appearance. 

 

The circles under his eyes were dark and heavy. Not as bad as last week, but still bad. 

 

His eyes were bloodshot. Apparently he had been crying in his sleep again. He wasn't surprised, just disappointed. 

 

He scratched absentmindedly at the pink scars on his shoulder, where skin met metal. As his fingers moved over the sudden change in texture, they recalled his earliest memories of it. Of when he first had the metal arm, where he had gouged at the skin, trying to tear the prosthetic off. Where he had traced the wires under his skin, trying to tear them out. His hand drifted down his arm, enclosed the limb in a steely grip, and again, pulled at the metal, in the futile hope that this time, it would release. 

 

He was pulled out of his thoughts when his stomach suddenly groaned.  _ Oh, yeah. That’s probably why my head hurts. I should eat something.   _

 

He shuffled over to the fridge, pulling his hair up into a half-hearted bun. Inside the fridge, there was half a gallon of milk, some week-old Chinese takeout, a bottle of hot sauce, and a carton of eggs that was almost empty. He grabbed the eggs and discarded the Chinese. Apparently he’d be making a run to the market today. 

 

The same metal arm that was used to kill countless innocent people carefully cracked the eggs into the skillet, on top of the stale bread. That same lethal prosthetic gently sprinkled a pinch of salt and pepper over the dish. Though sometimes it didn't feel like it, Bucky had come a long way from dangerous Hydra missions. 

 

He grabbed his plate and sat down on his mattress cross-legged, chewing thoughtfully as he planned his agenda for the day. Run garbage down, pick up some groceries at the market, and he should probably do a load of laundry, but that might just have to wait until tomorrow. Last night’s dream was still hanging pretty heavily on his shoulders. 

 

He washed his dishes in the sink, thinking wistfully of those fancy dishwashers everyone was telling him about. Maybe someday he’d be able to afford one, but for now they were still as much a thing of fantasy to him as they were in the 40s. 

 

_ I need to get out of these four walls.  _ He pulled on his jeans and laced up his Dr. Martens. Yeah, they were expensive, but they were comfortable, durable, and worked with his aesthetic. “Grunge”, the girl at the store had called it. She said he was “grunge”. Apparently it had been a music scene in the 90s. He’d have to look into it. 

 

Bucky grabbed his keys and locked the door behind him. An old woman was sitting on the bottom step, nursing a mug of of coffee. He had helped her carry up her groceries a couple times, but didn’t know her very well. She waved a gnarled hand at him in greeting. He waved  back. Some would say that he was a dangerous assassin lurking amongst unaware civilians. But to her, he was just a kind young man who needed to get some more sleep, poor thing. If only she knew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my very first published fic, so I'm eager for any feedback and/or recommendations. I'm not sure how far I'll end up taking this. I'll definitely follow him through Civil War, and hopefully all the way up to Infinity War. idk yet. We'll see where this ends up going.


	2. Bucky Goes Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes shopping and encounters a figurative fun-house mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Bucky is in Bucharest right now, but I don't speak Romanian, you're just gonna have to pretend the dialogue is in Romanian. Sorry :/ Unless otherwise stated, assume all the characters are speaking it.

“Mulțumesc…” He took the bag from the merchant, shifting it to one hand so he could shove his change in his pocket with the other. 

As he shuffled away from the stall, Bucky peeked at his purchase. It was a couple of choice potatoes and carrots, perfect for the stew he would make that afternoon. Next he would try to get some bread, if he could. And if he was really lucky, he might have just enough money left over to buy a tiny portion of chuck roast. 

Following his nose, he drifted over to the baker’s stall, where a decrepit old woman sat on a stool, quietly tatting. She smiled at him, reminded him that the rye was 30% off this week. On the ground next to her was a fat old tabby cat. It glared up at him, weaving between his legs as if asking for something. Bucky obliged, kneeling down to gently scratch it behind the ear. At first it bristled from his cold metal touch, but quickly overcame its apprehension and purred loudly. 

“Pisică, pisică, pisică…” He whispered over and over. The cat responded by rolling over to expose its belly. It had been so long since Bucky had held something so warm and fuzzy. He felt the sudden urge to scoop up the cat and hug him tight. If he wasn’t so embarrassed by the desire, he would’ve. He continued to pet it for a few moments, until it got bored and wandered back to its post. 

He stood back up and finished his purchase. As he walked away, he unconsciously cradled the loaf of bread close to his chest. It was still warm from the oven. Not as warm as the cat had been, nor as fluffy, but it was still more warmth than Bucky had felt in a very long time. 

He shuffled along the street, content with his purchases. His mouth was already watering with anticipation for the stew he would make with them. It would be meager, but it was enough to be something to look forward to. 

He reached for his pockets to count if he still had enough coin to manage some scraps of meat. He didn’t. When he looked back up, he was met with a scrawny little boy who was gaping at him. The street was clogged with dozens of other people, but he was unmistakably looking at him. The boy seemed to regard him with what appeared to be a sense of awe. 

“Fuck, mine isn’t nearly as nice as yours,” he said. “You must’ve paid out the fuckin’ nose for that!”

“Huh?”

But as soon as the syllable slipped from his lips, Bucky regretted it. For he suddenly realized what the boy had been ogling, and why. His arm. It was a warm morning, so he had rolled his sleeves up. A careless mistake. But he saw the boy’s own arm, and barely stifled a sob. It was a pitiful hunk of plastic, scuffed and chipped in several spots. 

“It was a gift,” he finally managed, referring to his own sleek limb that gleamed in the late morning sun. The boy whistled low. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, a woman who appeared to be his mother came up beside him. Her face was haggard and she favored one leg. 

“What are you doing? Come along now.” She went to hurry him away but paused when she saw Bucky. She instinctively glared at him, but her expression softened when her eyes fell on his arm. “Oh,” was all she said aloud. But he thought there might have been something more in her eyes. Not just the usual horrified pity, but a certain understanding. 

“Come on, boy.” She steered her son away, but not before he managed to throw one last envious glance back at Bucky’s vastly superior prosthetic. Bucky overheard him whisper excitedly to his mother. “See that? That thing’s fucking massive! Do you think he had to pay extra for the bulging muscles?” “Too much,” he heard the mother say. “All that metal must be so heavy.” Oh, it was heavy alright. Some days it was fucking unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! It's a fair bit shorter than the other chapter, but I think it's kinda sweet. Sorry it's been a little while. Hopefully the next chapter will be up sooner. Let me know what you think :)


	3. A Rainy Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Bucky listens to some music and encounters a damsel in distress

By the time Bucky got back to the apartment, grey clouds has rolled in and blocked out the sun. It was going to rain; he could smell it in the air. As he put away his groceries, he made a mental note to bring a jacket to work. Maybe it wouldn’t rain before his shift started, but it would almost certainly be pouring by the time he got off at two in the morning. 

He locked the door behind him and jogged down the steps, scrolling through his playlists, trying to decide what kind of mood he was in. The guy at the electronics store had convinced him that a smartphone was best, that it was the only device he would need. He had been very nice, helping Bucky set it all up, and patiently showing him how to use some of the basic functions. 

One of his favorite functions was the music… thing. He couldn’t remember was the guy had called it, but in his head he thought of it as the compartment of the device where the record player was kept. All he knew was that the thing connected to the internet, and it could play practically any song in existence, even Bucky’s favorite obscure tunes from the 20s.

Bucky decided to go for a premade playlist titled “Guilty Pleasures”, and smiled when he was greeted by the soothing, bouncy intro to a song about a guy who really likes Africa. He walked at a brisk pace, letting his hips just barely sway to the beat. 

When the song reached its passionate refrain, the crumbling sidewalk began to show specks of water. Bucky looked up at the tired sky and allowed himself a soft smile. The smell of the rain reminded him of lazy autumn days in Brooklyn, days spent tangled under the covers. 

Days spent lounging with his head in Steve’s lap, watching him draw in his sketchbook. Pressing his ear to Steve’s scrawny chest, hearing the asthmatic rattle. Breathing in the scents of paint, coffee, and cigarettes. Tracing his fingers along the faded blue veins on his arm. Veins that matched their owner’s eyes.  

Lost in his melancholy memories, Bucky didn’t notice the approaching woman until it was too late and they collided head on. The impact send the woman’s bag flying, leaving diapers and bottles of baby formula strewn all over the sidewalk. In between frantic apologies, Bucky scrambled to help her pick them up. 

“Imi pare rau, imi pare rau...”  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  _ The woman wasn’t as much a woman as she was a girl, barely 20. Her greasy blonde hair was plastered to her face, and deep purple circles outlined her eyes. As he handed her the last bottle, Bucky felt how calloused her hands were. 

“I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you okay?” The girl responded by weakly shaking her head. Her eyes were glued to the sidewalk, to the mess of baby formula and soggy diapers that lay there, a glaring symbol of her misfortune. 

“Two weeks…” she finally murmured. “I don't get paid for another  _ two weeks.”  _ Her voice began to wobble ever so slightly. “I spent my entire fucking paycheck on this _cacat_ _ ,  _ and it's gone. Just like that, poof!” 

She looked up at Bucky, who was trying to swallow the large lump of guilt lodged in his throat. “Gone. Gone, gone, gone, all gone. Poof!” She began tugging at her hair, the limp blond strands straining under the force. Her lip curled into an ugly sneer from which a desperate moan escaped. “What am I going to do? Oh god, what am I going to do?” She descended into a puddle of tears, doubled over in anguish. 

Bucky immediately reached out a concerned arm, but hesitated to actually touch her. He felt horrible, and desperately wanted to apologize, but was afraid she might lash out at him.  _ Not that she wouldn't be absolutely justified in doing so _ , he thought miserably. 

He settled for gingerly resting his hand on her shuddering shoulder, moving his thumb in soft, circular motions. “I'm so sorry.” From behind her tears, she let out a short, humorless laugh. “Sorry isn’t going to feed my baby, _măgar!”_

The former assassin flinched as though he had been struck.  _ Baby? Crucified Christ, I’m a fucking moron!  _ As he mentally kicked himself, the girl continued: “She hasn’t eaten in almost a day, since I left for work last night. I was on my way home to feed her; I’d just come from the store.” 

He was suffocating in the guilt now, a tight knot in his stomach. Bucky reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. “Here,” he said, dumping its meager contents onto the sidewalk next to the sniffling girl. “It’s all I have. I’m so sorry.” He then forced himself to straighten up, and start walking again. He hated to do it, but he had to get to work. His feet felt like cement. Each step prickled at his conscience.

There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t just leave her like that. For all he knew, walking away meant leaving her daughter for dead. As many men as he had killed over his illustrious career with Hydra, and even in his time with the army, he couldn’t just leave her. The thought of letting a child starve made Bucky’s stomach twist with nausea. 

Bucky slowed to a stop. “Do you have a phone?” The girl hiccuped. “Wha--I don’t--Why?” “Do you have one?” he asked again, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I need to be able to contact you.” She nodded hesitantly. A trembling hand retrieved a small flip phone from her bag. She tossed it to Bucky, who opened it alongside his own and began entering her number into his contacts. “Why?” she asked. “What are you doing?”

“Going to do,” he corrected. “I’m going to help you, if I can.” He handed her her phone back, and helped her to her feet. Her eyes were red and puffy, and there were small red sores around her chapped lips. “Help? Me? But--why?” she implored of him. 

  
After a short pause, Bucky gripped her by the shoulders and stared dramatically to the horizon behind her, as the rain rattled all around them. If they had been in a movie, the music would’ve swelled at that moment as the camera zoomed in on the determined look in his eyes. “Because,” he said, in a voice trying to emulate that of Captain America’s, “it’s the right thing to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the huge gap between updates! I never meant for it to take so long. But I hope you enjoyed it; there's still a lot more I'd like to explore in this story!


End file.
